


And Now, We’ll Live

by shortystylee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Lord gendry baratheon, Post Season 8, Sandor is alive, Season 8 mostly compliant, Wedding fiv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortystylee/pseuds/shortystylee
Summary: A fluffy Arya & Gendry wedding day story.Set in the same future as my story Letters, but can be read on its own.





	And Now, We’ll Live

_ Samwell Tarly’s voice normally shook and stammered at every word, especially when something was serious, but not this time. No, this task, no matter how serious, was one he was thrilled to get to perform. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”  _

 

“Gendry,” she says as he slows their walk and turns left down another corridor. She could just let go of his hand, as she knows he would always follow her, but she’s a bit curious. He doesn’t say anything.  _ “Husband,” _ she calls out, testing how it sounds on her tongue. He turns his head at that, and in the dim torch lit hallway she can see something in his eyes, simmering just below the surface. “Where are we going?”

 

He hazards a look around, sees that there’s no one else from the ceremony following behind, and opens the door nearest them. “In here.”

 

Arya allows herself to get pulled in, because, confused as she is, she’s a bit curious too. “The wine cellar?” She pauses, watching as he closes the door behind them. “Gen, why are we —”

 

He silences her with a kiss, lips hard on hers as he walks her backwards until she’s pinned against the door. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, his face still so close to hers. His hand runs up her arm, across her shoulder, finally cupping her cheek. “And you’re mine,  _ wife _ .”

 

_ “Arya, of House Stark, comes here to be wed.” Jon replied. “A woman grown, she comes here to beg the blessings of the gods.” _

 

_ “Who comes to wed her?” _

 

_ “Gendry,” he answered on cue, then pausing before he continued. “...of House Baratheon.”  _

 

He stops her scoff with another kiss, softly this time, then, with hands on her waist, he spins her to face the door. His mouth goes back to her instantly, placing open-mouthed kisses along her exposed shoulder and neck, and he smiles into her skin as he feels her knees shake and she starts to use him for support. His hand skirts around to her front, fingers dipping just below the deeply cut neckline. She whines and he pushes his hand in fully, cupping her breast and running his thumb over her nipple as best he can under the tight garment.

 

“Do we have time?” Arya asks, her voice coming out urgently. “The feast…”

 

“Depends. Are you ready for me, milady?” His breath, warm against her earlobe, sends another burst of chills through her.

 

She turns as much as she can, and meets his gaze, always challenging. “Why don’t you find out?”

 

_ “And who here gives her?” _

 

_ “I, Arya of House Stark, trueborn daughter of Ned Stark, give myself freely to this man.” There was a smile on Sam’s face, everything was going as they had discussed. If anyone took issue with the change from the usual vows, they didn’t make a sound.  _

 

_ “I understand that you have some vows you’ve written yourself?” _

 

_ Without looking, Arya reached over and took Gendry’s hand, lacing her fingers with his. “We do,” they said in unison, before kneeling down on the fur blanket laid in front of them. _

 

This would’ve been easier if she had worn a dress, Arya admits now, but she didn’t expect him to pull her away between the ceremony and the feast. It’d have been easier, but the utterly love-struck look on Gendry’s face when he saw her enter the Godswood, which quickly became lust when her steps made it obvious that, instead of a dress, she wore tall leather riding boots, soft grey leggings, and a long-sleeved winter-white tunic, made her choice worth it. It parted at her hips so she could walk freely, the hemline just reaching her knees, and his eyes immediately latched onto the deep plunging neckline. 

 

He works her leggings over her hips and down her thighs, a groan leaving his mouth when he runs a finger through her folds, finding her absolutely soaking. “You’ll be the death of me, Arya.”

 

“You’re damn right I will, if you don’t get on with it.” 

 

He makes quick work of the laces on his britches, entering her in one swift stroke. Arya sighs, her head falling backwards against his chest.

 

_ Gendry glanced at the crowd behind him. “I apologize in advance, I’m not that great with words.” He looked back at Arya, taking a deep breath before he started. “When we first met, you were a scrawny girl dressed up like a scrawny boy, trying to pick fights with people much bigger than yourself.”  _

 

_ “...sounds about right,” a deep voice in the crowd comments, and they both look over to see Sandor Clegane shrugging. He groaned and rolled his eyes when he saw everyone’s stares, then nodded once at Gendry as if to say, ‘keep going boy.’ _

 

_ “You trusted me with your secrets, let me know you, let me become part of your pack. Arry, I vow to you that we will be equals, in this marriage, in our lives as the rulers of the Stormlands, and in everything we do - except for archery, you’ll always be far superior than I am in that.” He’d meant to get at least a chuckle or two with that, instead, there’s stifled sobs and he knows without looking that its Sansa.  _ Fuck. _ He has to keep going or he’ll be a blubbering mess too and then he’ll really never hear the end of it from Clegane. “I vow that I will always let you be true to yourself, and to accept you for who you are, as you have done for me. You mean everything to me, Arya Stark. I have loved you as bastard boy from Flea Bottom, as a smith to your brother, and I will continue to love you as Lord Baratheon, and as your husband.” _

 

“I wish we could stay here forever.” There’s no one around them, but still her voice is barely above a whisper, even the sound of her getting her outfit readjusted seems louder.

 

He’s unsure what exactly she means by  _ here. _ This wine cellar? Winterfell? The North? ...so he goes with a different question. “We can’t miss our own feast,” he tells her, busy working on lacing his own pants back up. “Don’t know ‘bout you, but I’ve managed to work up quite an appetite.” In the dark, he can hear her laugh, then mutter something that sounds very near to  _ stupid man _ under her breath.

 

He holds the door open for her, and when the light shines in, she grabs the closest bottle of wine off a shelf.  _ An excuse for where they had been, _ he realizes.  _ Good thing one of us is crafty. _

 

They haven’t gotten even a few feet away yet before she says his name and asks him to turn around. When he does, she cocks her head to the side and sighs in a way that remind him of an exasperated Sansa, though he knows better than to mention that. Arya sets the wine bottle down on the floor and reaches for him with both hands, and for a minute he thinks she’s going to pull him back into the cellar for a second round. She doesn’t. 

 

“You look a mess.” Her small hands go to the various buttons and ties on his clothes, fixing what he’d messed up in the dark. “We’ve got to get you back to looking like a proper lord and not like you just fucked your new wife in a closet.” Arya pauses, looking him up and down. She picks up the wine bottle and takes his hand again. “Fucking your wife in a closet is highly improper behavior for a lord, Gendry. Didn’t they teach you that in those etiquette classes you've been taking?”

 

“Must’ve slept through that lesson.”

 

_ “Gods, Gendry.” She sniffled loudly and wanted to tell herself it was from the cold, but she knew better. “I cannot vow that I will be a perfect wife, or that I will perform the duties assigned to a lady. I cannot mend your clothes, and any Stags I embroider would be an insult to House Baratheon. I will be strong-willed and stubborn and continue to tease you whenever I like.” Arya paused for a moment as she squeezed his hands. “I vow that as your partner in Storms End I will stand by your side and support you as an equal, and I will always make up excuses for you when you’re holed up in the forge and miss counsel meetings. I have taken on many personas in my life, all tempting me to run, to give up being myself. In the end, I can’t. Because I love you, you stupid, bull-headed man, and you made me realize that being Arya, being your Arya, is worth it.”  _

 

_ Sam waited a moment before he began again - asking both if they take the other, receiving confident answers from each. “With that, under the eyes of gods and men, I pronounce you married. You may —” _

 

_ Still kneeling and not waiting for Sam to finish his sentence, Arya surged forward, pulling Gendry into a kiss. He smiled, mumbled something about her being impatient against her lips, before kissing her again.  _

 

The roar of the crowd falls as the doors open and then bursts to life again as they realize as a whole that it is Arya and Gendry who have arrived. The two walk hand in hand into the Great Hall, amidst cheers from her family, friends, bannermen, and some complete strangers. Everyone cheers loudly when Arya raises up the bottle of wine she’s brought with them, by way of an excuse for her lateness, since surely the majority are already half drunk.

 

It’s nothing compared to the noise when he catches her off-guard, for once, his free hand going tight around her waist, holding her in place as he kisses her soundly. Across the room she can hear the whoops and hollers of the Free Folk, so she kisses him back just as fiercely, placing another peck to his lips before they pull apart.  

 

Sansa stands as Arya walks past, enveloping her in a tight hug, then hanging onto her shoulders. Arya smiles as she sets the wine bottle down at the round table in front of Tyrion and Pod, who both grab for it at the same time. 

 

“Sister, how nice of you to stop by the wine cellars on your way back from the Godswood. With how long you took to decide, I hope you’ve found quite a good vintage.”

 

Something in Sansa’s voice sounds suspicious, teasing maybe, and Arya knows full well that her sister is not the naive little thing from years ago. 

 

“Hopefully it meets your standards,” she glances over at Pod then, already with a knife out to uncork the bottle. “We were, um, quite thorough.”

 

“I’m sure you were. Now go take your seats so we can eat.” She leans in again, whispering, “I’m tired of hearing Tyrion complain of how hungry he is.”

 

When she sits at the raised table prepared for her and Gendry, and sees the mug of tea, still warm, set on a matching saucer next to her already full goblet of wine, she looks over to Sansa, finding her already looking that her way. Arya lifts the mug in a toast gesture, to which Sansa nods her head to the side. The tea tastes like shit, and her face scrunches up at the taste.

 

“Something wrong?” Gendry asks, as she continues to work on downing the full mug so she can chase it with whatever wine they’ve poured for her. 

 

She shakes her head as she finished the last mouthful, then leans in. “Moon tea from Sansa. I guess she knows why we were late,” Arya whispers. 

 

“Better than Jon knowing.”

 

From then, there’s toasts and speeches in between course upon course of food being brought out. At some point after the last course, the men start to push tables and chairs out of the center of the hall, clearing a spot for dancing. Just mere months ago, if someone has suggested to Arya that she’d be in the Great Hall of her childhood home for her own wedding, with a lavish feast, a roaring fire, and a belly full of roasted pig and fresh spring greens from the hot house, chasing down Moon Tea with Dornish wine, she’d have laughed in their face. 

 

She’s a poor dancer, never having paid any attention to her lessons, and she steps on the toes of all the poor men, and the few women, who she dances with. There’s a somewhat quiet moment of pause as the fiddle players tune up for the next song, and Arya leans against a table to catch her breath. She thinks of the young girl in Kings Landing, near on a decade ago, and what she would think to her now, married to a Lord and dancing, all of her own volition. 

 

It seems Sansa has the same idea. She saddles up to her sister, hopping up to sit on the tabletop next to her, swirling the wine in her cup. Arya eyes it, and the way Sansa walks a little less poised than usual. Everyone else is so far gone that they wouldn’t notice the little sway in her walk, but Arya does. “Everytime I take a drink, someone just pours more in. Tyrion, or Pod, or Sandor,” Sansa explains. “I’m just relieved that we’re all here drinking to celebrate something happy for once. And,” she continues, “that you’re enjoying yourself so much. If only Mother and Father could see us now.”

 

“One of the last things I told him was how I'd never do any of this.”

 

Sansa nods. “You were a child, Arya. We both were. Who knew you'd meet someone so head over heels for you? Who knew we'd both find a way to really live after all this tragedy?” She sighs then, leaning over and resting her head on Arya’s shoulder, the pair closer in height with Sansa still sitting on the table. They sit like that for a moment, watching the raucous dancing, the servants who keep appearing with more drink and now desserts, Gendry on the other side of the hall having a particularly animated conversation with Ser Davos, with Sam and Gilly next to them, in awe of whatever tale Davos is telling. From there, she thinks she locks eyes with Tormund Giantsbane, who raises his drink at her, until she realizes that he’s looking at Sansa, not her. 

 

“Well, it seems like I’ve caught his eye.” Sansa says nonchalantly, then nods towards him across the room, where he’s leaned back against a pillar, next to Meera Reed and Asha Greyjoy, who seem to be ignoring him and are too busy showing each other the daggers they thought necessary to bring to a wedding feast.

 

“So, you and Tormund, it’s like that then, eh?” Arya knows  _ that  _ is the farthest thing from what it is, but she loves seeing her sister get riled up. “The Free Folk do have a thing for redheads, I suppose.” 

 

“Seven hells, Arya. Where do you get your ideas from?” She hops down from the table, now much taller than her sister. “But, he’s proven a loyal friend to us all, and even I must admit, he is quite amusing. You don’t suppose he’d want to dance, do you?”

 

Sansa doesn't wait for Arya’s answer, just walks over and starts talking to Tormund, before she drags him out to the middle of the makeshift dance floor. She watches them, and as she thought, it’s most spinning around to the fast-paced music since Tormund has no idea what he’s doing, but she hasn’t seen Sansa enjoy herself that much since they were children.

 

Arya’s not been to many weddings, well, none, in truth, but it strikes her several hours later that no one has called for the bedding yet. She’s at a table with Pod, Brienne, Tyrion, and Sandor, playing some game that Pod says is popular with the soldiers, a game that seems to be about flicking silver coins and drinking when they land in specific areas. She’s shit at it, but so is everyone else. 

 

“How come no one’s called for the bedding yet?”

 

Tyrion pipes up first. “It should be Jon who announces it, I suppose, but…”

 

“But?”

 

“I fear he’s not ready to deal with his little sister being bedded.”

 

“Then someone else do it?” Arya suggests. Part of her doesn’t want to seem  _ too _ antsy for the bedding, but it’s a Northern tradition, and these things need to remembered. Especially now. 

 

“Ser Arya,” Pod starts, always choosing to call her Ser despite her lack of knighthood, “I think most others are intimidated by you.”

 

“What?”

 

“Might have something to do with you bein’ a war hero and all. Killing the Night King. How well you handle weapons.”

 

Arya stands and her chair screeches as the legs scrape on the floor. “Piss on that. I want my goddamned bedding!” Brienne almost spits out her drink, her face going bright red, but Arya is not deterred. Instead, she finishes what’s left in her mug of beer, slamming it down on the table then standing on her chair. Two fingers in her mouth, she whistles loudly. “Hey, are we having a bedding or not?”

 

Gendry looks up as the crowd is brought to silence by Arya’s high-pitched whistle and her yelling. There has to be hundreds of eyes trained on him, but he gaze is only on Arya.

 

“As milady commands.”

 

Her friends move more quickly than she’d ever imagined. Before she knows what’s happening, Tormund is at her side, throwing her up in the air and catching her like fathers do with their young children. 

 

All she can do is laugh. When she looks across the room, Gendry is already heaved over Brienne’s shoulder like a sack of grain. Sansa is at their side, with Gendry’s leather booted feet over her shoulder. It’s obvious that her sister isn’t bearing even a meager portion of his weight, but she looks so genuinely happy, so carefree as she shouts and cheers along with all her people. Asha is there too, and Meera, both making sure Gendry doesn’t roll off Brienne’s shoulder, along with a couple other ladies trying their best to help however they can. Pod and Tyrion join Tormund, though Tyrion’s not much help with how tall the other two are. A few more of the men join in, doing an awkward and bumbling job of carrying her. Away from the crowd, she sees the few that aren’t participating, like Bran, and then Sandor saying something to Jon as he tries to ignore this particular tradition.  _ At least we’ve done away with ripping off the married couple’s clothes.  _

 

Months ago, she wasn’t sure this was what she wanted. But when she looks at her family and all their friends and bannermen, the people who have come from far away to celebrate, when she hears their unguarded laughter, she knows this is right for her. What was the point of even having a war against the Others and then against Cersei’s armies if it wasn’t this? If it wasn’t living?

 

And that had been her decision. Arya Stark was going to finally live - with the man she loved, with the family she still had left, with the friends she’d made - and she was going to squeeze every drop of enjoyment out of life that she could.

  
  



End file.
